


Origin of Love

by seutedeern



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2438261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seutedeern/pseuds/seutedeern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1971. After a business meeting, John and Paul decide to spend time with each other for a little longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origin of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at LJ, for archive purposes we decided to post this one here as well.

The room had been booked from two until four. That was what Paul's lawyer had told him, anyway; it was hardly his fault that George and Ringo and their legal aides started looking uncomfortable somewhere after three o'clock, shuffling papers and glancing at each other every time John said a word. It was hardly their fault that the majority of the issues were between John and Paul -- after all, that was what The Beatles had always been about, really, wasn't it? Lennon/McCartney. And now Northern Songs was all up in the air and John had gone crazy, and Paul couldn't help but wish things were back to the way they'd been ten years and a lifetime ago, before the fame, before all of this. He was a millionaire, but he'd give it all up for a weekend in Paris with John, banana milkshakes by the Seine and John's mouth on his for the first time.  
  
Oh, it had all gone wrong. There was no debating that. But there was no reason for George and Ringo to leave so abruptly, surely. Paul tore his eyes away from John's face and blinked up at Ringo, now pushing back his chair from the table. "You aren't going, are you?"  
  
"Well," Ringo began, diplomatically.  
  
John snorted. "Oh, aye, that's right, fuck off then. Me an' Paul, we'll fight for it, won't we, Paul?" To John's left, the lawyer cleared his throat anxiously. Heedlessly, John went on, "Swords or pistols, Paul?"  
  
"Wrestling," Paul suggested, feeling tired and defeated and restless. "If you can pin me, you win."  
  
"Well," George said wryly, getting up, "sounds like you don't need us, anyway. Only two men in a duel."  
  
Paul nodded at George with a half-hearted smile, feeling his heart instantly drop when the door closed behind Ringo. John glanced sidelong at the lawyer in the chair to his left and raised his eyebrows pointedly.  
  
"Well, looks like you're out of a job for today, doesn't it, mate?"  
  
"Paul," ventured Paul's lawyer carefully, glancing warily between John's face and the other attorney, "are you sure you're happy to be left alone."  
  
Paul opened his mouth to respond, but John was too quick. "Christ, we don't need a fuckin' chaperone, man. Bugger off, will you?"  
  
Paul shrugged, mouth curving slightly. He wasn't sure what John was playing at, but this sort of pendulum mood-swing was fairly typical of him. "You heard the man."  
  
The lawyers looked dubious, but John's expression seemed to hold enough sway to get them out of their chairs and out of the door. The sound of it closing rang noisy in the cavernous room, and the two men were left alone.  
  
"So," Paul began as he shifted in his chair, avoiding John's look, "Now it's just you and me."  
  
"You and me, indeed," John replied. Silence fell between them, and John reached for his pack of cigarettes, cursing silently under his breath when he found only one left. In order to keep calm around Paul these days, he would need a lot more than only one bloody ciggie. "Been a while since the last time we were alone," he mumbled around his cigarette after he had lit it up, carelessly dropping the lighter on the table.  
  
Paul let out a small cough, fumbling with the sleeve of his shirt, as he remembered the last time they were actually alone. It had started out rather nasty, the next moment John had him suddenly pressed up against the wall and his tongue down Paul's throat. But when they had parted, it had been yet again in anger and frustration, rejection and desperation. Paul prayed to God that things wouldn't be like this yet again. He didn't know how much longer he could put up with this situation between him and his former lover.  
  
"Last time we were alone, you still had that awful beard," he remarked, attempting a weak smile. John looked back at him with an arched eyebrow and the smile on Paul's lips died instantly.  
  
"And if I remember correctly, you looked like a homeless scruff," John sniffed, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Mimi would have never let you into our house if you had looked like that when we met," he added, and when Paul looked at him he suddenly recognised that familiar glimmer in John's eyes that indicated he was not set on having another argument.  
  
Breathing a sigh of relief, Paul chuckled, "Well, I have no idea how she put up with you looking like an escapee from an Amish colony." He turned around and reached for the pocket of his jacket, looking to see if he still had any cigarettes of his own. When he was greeted by only emptiness in his pockets, he frowned in disappointment.  
  
"Want to share?" John then piped up, taking Paul by surprise as he held out his cigarette, and Paul threw him a sceptical look as he hesitantly accepted, uttering "Ta," before he put the fag between his lips and took a deep, satisfying drag, breathing out slowly.  
  
The smoke was like a tonic in Paul's lungs, smoothing all the edges of himself that had been roughened and strained by the hour of legal debate and tense near-argument between the former bandmates. When he glanced up, smoke pluming out between his lips, he thought he caught John's eyes on him, on his parted mouth.  
  
Paul cleared his throat, handed the cigarette back. That was ridiculous, after all this time, to imagine John would watch him that way. They weren't teenagers any more, after all. They weren't queer. Paul had a wife and a child -- two children, even. John had set himself up as some sort of peace guru. Gurus didn't gaze at their former friends' mouths in deserted conference rooms, their eyes dark as if aching to reach out and touch.  
  
The thing was -- as Paul passed the cigarette back, and John's long fingers brushed his as they intercepted it -- he could have sworn that John was doing just that. Looking at Paul's mouth intently, as if he hadn't a care in the world but that, just him and Paul and the things they could do together. As if they were kids again. Paul fought back the shiver that skipped up his spine and leaned back in his chair, at once both glad and nervous that they had sent the lawyers away.  
  
"So," he said, "Now that we're alone -- was there any particular business you wanted to take care of?"  
  
John cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. He tapped the end of the cigarette against his thin lips as he looked into space, seemingly pondering over the question. "Hm... No, not really. I'm... I'm just fucking tired of all this crap, Paul. Give it a rest for a second, will you?"  
  
When Paul looked up, there was nothing in John's expression, so open and sincere for the first time in ages, that could have belied his words. Instead, John just looked tired -- exhausted, even. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath, flicking his tongue over his lips before he spoke again. "The thing is, Paul, I listen half the time to what those lawyers say but I basically zoom out as soon as George gets started on the money, and end up daydreaming."  
  
With a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, Paul leaned forward as well, tilting his head, giving John a curious look. "You were always a dreamer, Johnny."  
  
"But I'm not the only one, am I?"  
  
"You could use that for a song," Paul chuckled softly.  
  
"Mm, got to keep that one in mind. A song about me dreaming my life away."  
  
Feeling something strange creeping up his spine, Paul almost reached out to take John's hand, wanting to give it a comforting squeeze. But instead, he just twiddled his thumbs and muttered wryly, in a low voice, "You sound so happy, John." When John didn't reply, Paul looked up at him, frowning. "You alright..?"  
  
"Course I'm alright." John's tone was brisk, but there was a hollowness to it that was not lost on Paul, something of the cynic belying John's breeziness. "Why wouldn't I be? I've got everything I want, haven't I?"  
  
Paul felt his chest tighten strangely, and trampled self-consciously on the feeling until it dulled, became a softer, older pain. "Yeah," he said softly, thinking of Yoko and the way John looked at her, their strange alliance and the way it excluded Paul entirely. "I suppose so."  
  
For a moment, John was silent. He was smiling, but it was only half a smile, an up-turning of the corner of his mouth. When he glanced up, Paul wasn't expecting the wryness in his expression, nor the frankness in his eyes when he said, "You know...sometimes I miss it, Paul."  
  
"Miss it?" Paul felt as if his voice was barely a croak as it emerged. John rarely admitted to weakness, rarely admitted to  _missing_  anything. "How do you mean?"  
  
"Oh..." John waved his hand dismissively. "Not the madness, not all the touring and the girls and the loonies wanting our take on everything, but..." He held out the cigarette, blowing a blue ribbon of smoke up towards the ceiling. "You," he said, at length, his voice quiet. "I miss you sometimes, you know?"  
  
Paul was silent. He wasn't sure whether he trusted himself to speak. He didn't know whether what would come out would be a yell of triumph or a scream of frustration, when John had brought this upon himself, after all. Luckily, John was still talking.  
  
"I miss the old days," John went on. "From time to time. You and me, tearing up the town, eh? Hitting the bars?"  
  
The look on John's face was so openly hopeful, his eyes so soft and warm, that Paul ached for him, his chest twisting. He couldn't let that expression pass, not when every part of him ached to run to John, go back to him, as always. Curse John's sweet face, despite everything.  
  
"Well," Paul said, although he wasn't sure he'd quite intended the words to come out, "we could go out, still, couldn't we? Just for old times' sake."  
  
"Are you sure?" John's voice was tinged with hope but also something that was clearly doubt in Paul's ears. And then, suddenly, John's face fell yet again and he looked down at his hand, turning it to look at his fingernails. "What would the bloody newspapers say, hm? They'd all cream their bleedin' knickers. 'Lennon and McCartney getting back together!'"  
  
The unfortunate choice of words made Paul cringe and without thinking twice, he snatched the cigarette from John, needing more of the soothing smoke and the burning sensation which he hoped would distract him from the uneasy feeling in his stomach. "I suppose that depends on where we'd be going. They're not  _everywhere,_  you know."  
  
John only stared back at him with a blank look on his face, as if he didn't catch Paul's drift at all. Sighing in frustration, Paul grabbed his jacket and got up, running a hand through his long hair and combing it back before he walked slowly up to John, coming to a halt right next to him. "Here, thought you might need it more than I do," he said, handing John back the remains of the cigarette which were still worth a few good drags. When John took it from Paul, eyes fixed on him, he swallowed hard. He looked, to Paul, somehow unable to form a coherent thought.  
  
Well, if that was the case, there was nothing else Paul could do. John wasn't biting. "See you next time. Hopefully." Paul tried to smile, and turned around, preparing to leave. But as he reached the door, he was stopped in his tracks by the unusual tone of John's slightly wavering voice.  
  
"Paul? I - I'm sorry. Please. Don't go, yeah?"  
  
Paul stopped. He hadn't meant to, he told himself -- he had gone through enough years of waiting for John to call him back, and then doing whatever he could to keep John's attention. John didn't want him any more; John had made damn sure that Paul and the whole rest of the world knew that. And yet, here was John calling him, and here was Paul stopping. It seemed that some behaviours were too ingrained to change, and Paul...Paul did want to know what John had to say. He couldn't help it.  
  
"Paul," John said, and then Paul heard the scrape of the chair against the floor that meant John was getting up, was moving towards him. "Wait. Let's...let's go somewhere."  
  
Paul hesitated a second. His throat felt oddly close as he said, "What if they  _see_ , eh?" He half-turned towards John, enough to see the look on John's face as he moved towards Paul, his hair soft and russet-coloured around his face. He was slim, slimmer than Paul had known him for a while, but he looked good, with his new round glasses and his clean complexion and his shaggy haircut. Paul wanted to touch that hair, and hated himself for it. He swallowed. "I thought you were worried about press."  
  
"I'm not that worried." John's hand closed on Paul's shoulder, and Paul couldn't fight back a shiver. It was so familiar, that warm touch. "Look, I..." John paused, tongue flickering over his lower lip. "I know somewhere we won't be bothered, but you have to trust me, alright?"  
  
"That doesn't fill me with confidence," Paul said, after a second, narrowing his eyes. He knew already that he would probably end up going with John anyway, but it seemed that he should at least protest.  
  
"Well," John said, and shrugged. His mouth quirked into a little smile, and Paul felt himself immediately wanting to smile in response. Stupid John and his bloody infectious grins. "Take a chance, eh? For old time's sake."  
  
"Fine," Paul said, and when John held out his arm for Paul to take, Paul slipped his hand through it immediately. "Come on, then. Take me there."  
  
****  
  
Although the thought had crossed his own mind earlier, Paul still found himself surprised that John had brought him to an establishment like this one. Of course he was familiar with surroundings like these; had been in such places often enough after all with John after having been to a musical or to the pictures, or whenever they'd both wanted some privacy for themselves after a long day.  
The air was thick, filled with smoke, the smell of alcohol and a constant soothing buzz of voices. As they made their way through the main room of the club, John took Paul by the hand. Apparently he knew exactly where he wanted to sit, and Paul found himself once more drawn to John, cursing himself for how naturally he obeyed the other man's wishes.  
  
"That good?" John asked as he slid into the booth and patted the space next to him with a little smile, looking up at Paul hopefully.  
  
"I suppose it'll do." Paul scrunched up his nose in mock-disdain, followed it up with a smile that caused John to quickly look away.  
  
Swiftly, Paul sat down next to John and looked around the club, taking in the other guests who mainly seemed to be men. There were a few women there, too, but they also looked more interested in each other than in anything going on around them.  
  
"Memories, eh?" Paul heard John's soft voice, and turned his head towards him, eyebrows raised.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"This here. It brings back memories, doesn't it?" John repeated as he put an arm along the backrest behind Paul, "I mean whenever we wanted to be alone, and --"  
  
"Paris," Paul suddenly cut in, not looking at John, but smiling slightly nevertheless. "It reminds me of Paris."  
  
"Our holiday..." John hummed in reply and Paul could feel John's gaze lingering on him, felt himself blushing lightly under the other's intent look.  
  
"Those were the days," Paul said. He could feel the warmth of John's arm along the back of the booth behind him, though he was still wearing a jacket and so was John. It was as if the heat of John's skin had a power over him beyond what it should have, logically. The feeling made Paul almost light-headed, remembering the way John's arms felt, warm and bare and around him, holding their naked bodies together.  
  
But that was all past now. Even if John had brought him to -- to a queer bar. This was just business, really, even if it was the business of mending their personal friendship; it was always easier to get an evening to themselves when they bypassed the popular establishments and slipped, instead, into a place where nobody would dare to report on their presence, for fear of being questioned about their own attendance there. Paul cleared his throat. "I've hardly been to Paris without you, you know."  
  
"You went with old Groovy Bob," John pointed out quickly. His voice was flat, balanced, but Paul had known John too long not to detect the note of tension -- of disapproval -- beneath the surface. All these years later, and John still wasn't over that? Paul sighed.  
  
"That was a business trip, John."  
  
"Well," John said, and the arm at Paul's back abruptly shifted, John's hand slipping down to cup the ball of Paul's shoulder. His palm was warm and his fingers long, his grip reassuring. "Isn't this? A business trip?"  
  
When Paul turned his head, John was right there, barely a breath between them. John's eyes glittered behind his spectacles, soft and caramel coloured. His face gave away nothing, but he didn't move away. Paul wanted, with a sudden, visceral want, to kiss him. Instead, he said, "Get me a drink."  
  
"Come with me, then," John said easily, and stood up. He held his hand out for Paul as if it were only the natural thing, and Paul found himself setting his hand in John's, the way so many other men in this establishment were holding each other's hands as they moved about the darkened room. John had always had a strange power over him; Paul supposed there was no reason it should stop now.  
  
As they walked towards the bar, Paul kept on walking closely behind John, holding his hand in a firm grip as if he feared that if he let go of it, John just might snap back into one of his foul moods and leave him alone again. Once they reached the bar and John ordered his drink -- rum and Coke -- he looked back at Paul, who was standing so close that his chin almost brushed John's shoulder.  
  
"What do you want?" John asked with a smile, and nodded to the bar.  
  
"Same."  
  
"Ah, still the same old habits, eh?" John quipped, laughing softly when Paul prodded his side.  
  
"Could say the same about you, love," Paul replied, and almost, almost found himself burying his nose in John's shoulder, like he used to do in the old days whenever he had felt affectionate towards his friend. Chiding himself for his foolish thoughts, he barely registered when John held out his drink for him. "Thanks," he said as he quickly took the glass from John, brushing his fingers along John's just the way the other man had done earlier. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn't notice the smile John was giving him as they walked back.  
  
"Ah, come on, Paul, you'll never find the way back to the bloody booth." Impatiently, he grabbed Paul's hand and led them quickly back to the spot they had sat at before. John nearly stopped, though, when he felt how Paul linked their fingers, and gave John's hand a small, hopeful squeeze.  
  
When they sat down, it seemed to Paul -- although he didn't quite dare admit it fully to himself, in case it was only wishful thinking -- that John sat closer to him than he had before, shuffling in along the seat until their thighs were pressed together from hip to knee. John felt warm, his long fingers interlaced through Paul's, and Paul's mind felt a little fuzzy, as if he had already had a rum and Coke or two.  
  
"Should have got some shots, probably," John said, as if reading his mind. He grinned at Paul, and it occurred to Paul dully that, probably, they should have let each other's hands fall by now, the entangling of fingers only necessary for keeping together in the crowded press of bodies in the bar. But John made no move to pull away, and Paul found himself too starved for the contact to withdraw himself, if John was happy to sit this way.  
  
"Never been a fan of shots," Paul pointed out idly, sipping at his drink.  
  
John rolled his eyes. "That's not what you were saying when you were drinking tequila out of that blonde bird's navel, remember? In the Bahamas?"  
  
"It was fucking freezing," Paul said. "Her nipples were like bullets."  
  
John laughed, the sound of it free and easy, and for a moment, it was almost as if things were normal, as if nothing had ever changed; as if he and John were still the PaulandJohn they had once been, watching porn backwards in their dressing room and complaining about the inclement Bahaman temperatures. Paul leaned over almost without thinking, pressed his forehead to John's temple.  
  
"Hi," John said. His expression, for once, was open-faced, happy, nothing hidden in it.  
  
Paul smiled back. "Hi," he said, and rubbed his nose against John's cheek, feeling more than a little hammered on nothing but John's presence.  
  
John hummed in reply as he nuzzled Paul back, finally withdrawing his hand from Paul's grasp only to place it upon Paul's face, his thumb gently, hesitantly stroking along Paul's jaw. Paul, in return, let out a shivery sigh, flickering his tongue over his lips briefly. Eyes closed, he concentrated on the feeling of John's nose, John's fucking perfect long-familiar nose against his, John's shallow breathing grazing Paul's skin, which now felt too hot for him, as if it was getting too tight, tingling all over where John's hand touched him.  
  
"So," Paul began, voice raspy, "Is this what you meant by 'missing me'?"  
  
"Maybe," John smirked, his eyes hooded as he grazed lightly his lips along the corner of Paul's mouth. "There are lots of things I miss about you."  
  
"Such as?" Opening his eyes, Paul was met by John's intent gaze, locking into his. He could feel the connection forming almost as a physical thing, as if nothing had ever broken it; he felt as though he and John were in their tiny private bubble once more. He sure as hell didn't notice any more what was going on around him -- not when John was this close to him, not when John's lips teased his in such a painfully delicious way.  
  
"Want a list, do you?" John smirked, but Paul couldn't find it in himself to be irritated, not with the way John's lips brushed his as he spoke, John's breath, tinged with peppermint from his gum and sweet alcohol from his drink, warm on Paul's mouth. Christ, but Paul wanted John to kiss him. He'd wanted it for years, now; wanted it half-consciously from the very first time he'd met John properly in that church hall, and from the first time they'd  _really_  kissed, John's tongue stroking wetly against Paul's, Paul had never been able to forget the way he tasted.  
  
"I didn't think you missed me," was what Paul meant to say. "I thought it was just me, that you were happy without me." But somehow, what came out, on this shaky little breath, was, "Fuck it, John, I miss kissing you." The words pelted through Paul hotly the moment they were out, berating him, but he had gone too far now not to go on, and it was so true. "This isn't really the place, but...I miss all the other stuff, talking to you and playing music with you, but not as much as I miss that."  
  
Paul could see, practically feel the slight shift in John's expression. Even though he was already grinning like the Cheshire cat at Paul, there was now something in his eyes, warmth and love, which Paul had thought John would never show again. For him at least. With a triumphant little grin, Paul reached up to run his index finger along John's cheek bone, nuzzling him again.  
  
"Don't you miss it, too?" he asked softly, pressing his lips lightly against John's cheek, feeling the other's breath hitch.  
  
"Don't you know me at all, Macca?" John sighed, wistful, as he cupped Paul's cheek, "'Course I bloody do." And with that and no further declarations of love or whatever Paul might have hoped to hear from the other, John tilted his head slightly and pressed his lips to Paul's, humming in contentment. All Paul could think of at that moment was that he had found home again.  
  
It was soft, at first, gentle. Paul had, to his shame, imagined this moment many times on long, maudlin nights spent at the bottom of a bottle of whisky, and it had never been like this -- in his mind, they'd always come together with a violent urgency born of long separation, desire deferred. But now, as John mouthed at the swell of his lower lip, nudged his mouth open sweetly, Paul thought that this was better, this way John was kissing him that Paul hadn't felt for years. John had kissed him like this in Paris, in their shabby little hotel room. Probably, it was hugely unwise to let John do it here, in a public bar, but there was nothing anyone could do, after all, was there? Not now, not after all that Stonewall business. And there was certainly nothing Paul could do.  
  
He wanted to say John's name, but that would have involved pulling back. Instead, he pressed forward, hands lifting to push into John's thick hair, gripping it so it spilled between his fingers. John made a soft sound of pleased surprise, and then his mouth gave way to Paul's, the wet insides of his lips catching at Paul's as their tongues met. John felt, tasted, familiar, like something Paul had only briefly lost and was now recovering, and Paul shivered as John licked over his teeth, his mouth sliding open and wet against Paul's.  
  
A sound from the next booth jolted them apart. For a second, fear flashed through Paul, and he looked up, expecting to see mockery in John's face, _needed that, did you, Macca?_  But John only grinned at him sheepishly. "Feel like a kid," he said, "doing this here."  
  
Relief made Paul giddy, and he smiled back. "Except we never could, could we?" Carefully, he cupped John's jaw, his boldness returning as the flash of panic ebbed away. "Not in those days. Not in the open."  
  
With a nod, John leaned in again, nipping at Paul's bottom lip briefly, tugging at it and eliciting a small moan from the other man. "It's exciting, though, isn't it?" His voice was barely above a whisper, and dimly, Paul registered John's hand dropping from his cheek to come to rest on his leg, then beginning to stroke his thigh shyly.  
  
"Mm," Paul sighed, pecking John's lips and nuzzling his nose yet again. "Can't disagree with that, love."  
  
He shifted a bit, turning more fully towards John as the movements of John's hand grew a bit more curious, bolder as he ran his hand up and down Paul's thigh. For a second, Paul wished he could just throw a leg over John's lap and straddle him right there in the bar, kiss him until his lips tingled deliciously.  
  
He got distracted, though, when he noticed the soft, wet stroke of a tongue along his neck. With a barely suppressed grunt, Paul cupped the back of John's head as he craned his neck and let the other place sucking kisses and licks along his throat. He always knew he had missed this but now that he was granted the feeling of it again, John kissing and caressing him and looking at Paul as if he was the only good thing that had happened to him in his life, Paul also knew that he couldn't lose it a second time.  
  
"Johnny," he breathed out as he ran his fingers through John's soft hair, holding him close.  
  
"Mh?" Looking up, John frowned a little, worry in his eyes. "Everything alright, babe?"  
  
"Yeah, everything's perfect." Paul smiled and placed a kiss between John's eyebrows, "I just... I dunno, but..." Sighing in frustration, Paul caressed John's cheek. "Is this just a one-time thing?"  
  
John's face went still, and for a moment Paul regretted speaking up. That was the look John would often get before all of his warmth was shut off as if a switch had been flipped, and the next words out of his mouth would be something cutting and cold. Maybe he should have just let this happen as it would, and then questioned it afterwards, but --  
  
"Paul," John said, and his tone was cautious, reasonable. "We're married, love."  
  
"You were always married," Paul muttered, although he knew it was beside the point. John and Cynthia, Paul and Jane...they had always been secondary things to the driving force that was Lennon/McCartney, but now, at last, they were adults, or so they were expected to believe. Adults with real lives, where the frenzy of Beatlemania had been only a dream.  
  
"You've got kids," John pointed out. "We can't...I mean, you're not exactly about to leave them, are you? Those lovely kids and your wife? For what?"  
  
For a reckless moment, it actually crossed Paul's mind to say that yes, if John was really offering himself, then Paul would do anything for that. But then the rush of madness abated and he sighed. "No, I'm not going to leave them. Not without --"  
  
"Without what?" John cut in. His fingers brushed through Paul's hair, softening his words. "What would it take, Paul? A promise? We can hardly go and have a white wedding, can we?" John hesitated, then leaned in again, brushed his lips against Paul's. "But we can have this. Let's just -- just let's have this, eh?"  
  
"Just for tonight?" Paul asked, careful.  
  
"For however many nights we want," John said darkly. "I won't tell if you won't."  
  
It shouldn't have twisted Paul's gut the way it did, those words, what John was proposing. Paul knew that. This was cheating, on Linda, whom he loved. But John -- John had always come first; even Linda must know that. The way she had talked with him about John, Paul felt that she did, that she knew more about them than Paul had ever actually told her. And when John talked like that, all deep and smooth, it had always gone straight to Paul's dick.  
  
"Christ," Paul said, voice breaking a little. "Come here."  
  
He pulled John close, harshly, without warning. This time, the kiss was harder, going deep immediately, John growling in his throat as his hands slid down Paul's back to cup his arse. Paul hitched himself closer, rubbing his tongue lewdly against John's; fuck that they were in public, this was hardly public in the usual sense, and at any rate, Paul didn't care. He had John, under his hands and against his mouth, and for now, he wanted as much of him as he could get.  
  
It went on like this for several frenzied minutes before they had to eventually stop kissing -- breathing was getting hard. John leaned into Paul with his head resting on the other's shoulder, nose nuzzling along Paul's throat while Paul panted softly, trying to catch his breath.  
  
"Fucking hell, Johnny, I really do feel like a dirty teenager again, thanks to you."  
  
They both chuckled at that until John slid his hand from Paul's arse to his front and cupped him, giving him a friendly squeeze. "Mm, I can feel that," he murmured against Paul's skin, voice silky. "Such a naughty boy, Macca. Nothing's changed, eh?"  
  
Releasing a shivery sigh, Paul closed his eyes and tried to press himself further into John's palm, decency or embarrassment be damned. "Can say the same about you, Lennon," he rasped. "You still like to feel people up at the most inconvenient times, don't you?"  
  
"Ah, Paul," John tutted, "Just admit that you looked forward to my friendly hand during all those dull press conferences, love." Meanwhile, John's hand on Paul's clothed dick started moving slowly, rubbing him through the fabric, and he smirked at the soft moan he got in return.  
  
"Git," Paul said, but his voice was thready and lacked conviction. "You better not be leading me on."  
  
"Oh?" John raised his eyebrows, looking entirely too pleased with himself for Paul's liking. " _He took me half the way there_ ," he sang under his breath, teasing, and Paul's cheeks coloured.  
  
"Better not," he repeated. "I'll get us a hotel if I have to."  
  
"Mmmm." John's smile changed, becoming darker, more heated. He leaned in, mouthed at Paul's lips, and Paul chased him eagerly, rubbing his tongue against John's for the few seconds before John pulled back again, pressing the heel of his hand down hard against the ridge of Paul's cock until his breath escaped in a gasp. "Loo not good enough for you any more, then? The High and Mighty McCartney?"  
  
Paul swallowed a bolt of want and managed, grabbing at John's wrist to still it, "I haven't waited years just for a fumble in the loo, Lennon. If I've got you for the night, I'm damn well getting properly fucked." He was blushing, slightly, but it was as much arousal as anything. God, now that he'd thought of it, he wanted all of it, the old familiar sensations, John's dick in his mouth, in him any way he could get it. Christ. "That alright with you?"  
  
"Fuck," John spat. Then his hand was abruptly gone, and Paul felt like whining in disappointment, but then John was standing, pulling Paul up with him, wrapping a firm arm around his waist and pushing his hand possessively into the back pocket of Paul's tight jeans. "You're coming with me."  
  
***  
  
Truth be told, Paul didn't remember much about how they managed to get from the club to the little hotel room he and John had been able to find without giving in to the urge to grope each other like two horny teenagers. The only thought that was stuck in his head was of the baffled faces of the slim young men in the club as they witnessed John and Paul walking out past them, arms wrapped around each other possessively and stopping every few steps to steal brief kisses. Now that he was alone in the hotel room with John, his John, Paul was laughing softly to himself, shaking his head.  
  
"Anything funny?" John asked with amusement in his voice. He walked up behind Paul and wrapped his arms around his waist. His lips brushed against Paul's neck, then fastened there more firmly, trailing along the fine skin and planting feather light kisses upon it. John could be very gentle, when he wanted to be. Paul had missed it.  
  
"No, nothing," Paul sighed, leaning back into John's body. It was remarkable how after all this time, they both fell into a natural behaviour with each other and it amazed Paul how normal it still felt to have John pressed up like this against his back. "I was just thinking how perfect this moment actually is."  
  
"Just like you've imagined it in your wettest dreams, love?" John smirked, nibbling gently at Paul's earlobe. Paul purred in response and turned around in John's arms, kissing him unusually chastely, despite his worked up state.  
  
"I can't tell quite yet. We'll see, won't we?" And with a wink he grabbed John's shirt and shoved him towards the bed, grunting when John let himself fall onto the mattress and pulled Paul on top of him. "Off with that," Paul ordered as he started to unbutton John's shirt, his fingers trembling slightly.  
  
"Bossy," John said. He rolled his hips pointedly, arching his back, so Paul felt the line of John's dick clear and hard through his trousers, pressing against Paul's hipbone.  
  
"Doesn't seem like you mind," Paul pointed out a little shakily. As the buttons of the shirt came undone, the urge rose in Paul to lean down and nuzzle at John's bare skin; by the time he had reached John's navel, the compulsion was too powerful to resist. Besides which, Paul had little interest in resisting. If he had, they wouldn't be here, after all, John trapped between Paul's thighs and John's smooth chest heaving under Paul's hands. He leaned down, mouthed at John's nipple, and John laughed sharply, one hand coming up to stroke Paul's hair.  
  
"I think you need reminding what your place is," John teased, but his voice was a little breathless and Paul smiled against John's chest.  
  
"Go on, then," he said.  
  
He was on his back before the words were fully out of his mouth. John rose up above him, the light catching the ends of his hair so its usual dull russet looked fire-red, and as he shrugged the open shirt off his shoulders, Paul's breath died in his throat.  
  
"What," John said, voice softer now, as he tugged Paul's shirt out of his trousers in fistfuls, fumbled the buttons open hurriedly. Paul  _hmmed_  and shifted and rubbed his dick up against John where he was sitting quite pointedly astride it, taking hold of John's narrow hips in his hands.  
  
"You'll laugh at me," he said.  
  
"Won't," John promised, and then, almost urgently, "Come on, Paul. We're not exactly holding back, are we?"  
  
Paul bit his lip and shook his head. "I just -- you're fucking beautiful, John. Do you know that?"  
  
John's blushes, although rare, had always shown up very obviously on his pale skin, and he blushed at this, cheeks going pink. "Soft git," he said, but Paul could see from the way he cast his eyes down that he was pleased, almost moved. Then Paul's shirt was off, tossed aside, and John was fully on top of him, their skin sensitised and tingling everywhere it touched. Paul groaned, clutched at John's shoulders.  
  
"Mine," John said. His mouth was in the hollow of Paul's throat, his hips beginning to move against Paul's, and for a second, Paul thought he had imagined it, but then John said again, more strongly, "This is mine, Paul, isn't it? Just mine. Just me."  
  
"Just you, Johnny," Paul promised. His chest felt strange, hollowed out, and he spread his legs, let John fit himself fully between them. "Now come on. Are you going to waste time being sentimental, or are you going to fuck me?"  
  
John raised his eyebrows at him, tipping his head slightly to the side. "Whatever happened to my romantic little Macca who used to drown me in his corniness?"  
  
Paul laughed softly, breathlessly, "He's still there but right now he wants to be fucked until he can't walk anymore." A firm thrust of his hips upward against John's served to make his point clear. And John got the hint without cracking more stupid jokes than necessary.  
  
He undid Paul's trousers easily, shoving them roughly down and throwing them into a corner of the room while Paul fumbled with John's, slipping a hand inside them briefly, wanting to feel John hard against his palm. John was hot and smooth in his hand and Paul held him still for a second, swallowing back a rush of want, before he pulled the trousers down, along with John's boxers. The sight of his friend naked like this still took Paul's breath away, and, flicking his tongue over his lips, Paul inched forward as he pulled John down again on top of him, the latter still fitting perfectly between Paul's legs.  
  
"God, how fucking much I've missed this," John groaned into Paul's neck. Paul nodded tightly, shakily, in return, a low moan shoving its way out of him as he moved his hips against John's. When John shifted, began to trail light kisses down Paul's trembling body, Paul watched him attentively, taking a deep breath as he reached out to run his fingers through John's shaggy hair. It was as if all his senses were running on overdrive. Every inch of skin that John touched with his tongue and lips, licked and nibbled at, tingled pleasantly and the lower John moved, the more impatient Paul got.  
  
"John, come on now," he whimpered when John started trailing the tip of his tongue from Paul's navel down to the waistband of his underwear.  
  
"Come on now what?" John grinned up at him, waggling his eyebrows. When Paul opened his mouth to say something, John dived in suddenly and nuzzled Paul's clothed erection, pressed his lips against it, falling immediately upon the place where precome had already soaked a little damp spot through the fabric.  
  
"Oh, God." Paul had forgotten this, somehow, that this was one of John's tricks -- the way he'd lean in, beautiful hands smoothing up the insides of Paul's thighs to make room for himself between, and press his face to the bulge of Paul's dick. Between Paul's legs, John groaned, and Paul felt the damp heat of his breath touch him through the thin layer of cotton.  
  
"Johnny," he panted, clutching at John's hair. From this vantage point, John looked incredible -- all soft hair falling into his face and smooth broad shoulders, the wings of his shoulder blades cresting as he moved. He opened his mouth, sucked at Paul almost sideways-on, and Paul couldn't help but cry out, bucking up against John's face. But something -- something was missing.  
  
"Glasses," he managed, fumbling for them clumsily with one-hand, clawing them down until they dangled by one earpiece. "Take 'em off, come on."  
  
John lifted his head long enough to laugh and set the spectacles aside, tossing them gently to the floor. "All right," he chided, "don't break 'em. And don't complain when I can't see what I'm doing, you hear?"  
  
Without his glasses, John looked all eyelashes and cheekbones, and Paul felt a new rush of fondness rising in him, dick twitching in his boxers at the look on John's face, the dampness of his slightly-parted lips. "Did this enough in the dark, John," he said.  
  
John smiled, hooked his fingers under the waistband of Paul's shorts and tugged them down, over the jut of his cock, over his arse. "We did an' all."  
  
When he took Paul into his mouth, Paul forgot everything. Everything but this, John's practised tongue and the hot-silk feeling of the insides of his cheeks against Paul's prick, the sounds John made, as if in genuine bliss. John loved this, loved everything about it, and it had always shorted out every circuit in Paul's brain to fuck John's mouth like this and hear John gasp and groan and push down further, hear the slick sound of his lips as he let Paul slip out and then pressed down again. Paul had had plenty of blowjobs in his life, but John was the bloody master.  
  
Heat was coursing through Paul in flashes now, and he arched his back, tightening his grip on John's silky hair when he recognised the first signs of his impending orgasm. "John," he moaned, tugging at the other's hair, "John... Stop, oh God..." He let out a deep groan when John sucked a bit harder, bobbing his head faster. "John, I don't want to come just yet!"  
  
That seemed to work -- at any rate, John stopped his movements and looked up at Paul in disbelief. With a small slick sound, he let Paul's dick slip from his mouth, licking his lips.  
  
"Getting old, are we, babe?" He smirked; his mouth had parted company with Paul's dick, but his hand was still lazily at work on it, squeezing slightly so that Paul shivered and writhed.  
  
"Shut up," Paul laughed, thrusting up into John's hand despite himself. "It's just... I want to come from you fucking me. It's been too long."  
  
"I know," John hummed, and leaned over to kiss him, sneaking his tongue into the other man's mouth and stroking it tenderly against Paul's while his hand continued its ministrations. "Open that pretty mouth of yours, love," he murmured, and lifted two fingers to brush against Paul's lips.  
  
Paul obliged without a second's hesitation. He welcomed John's fingers in his mouth, wrapping his lips around them, eyes hooded as he looked back at John. He felt drunk, shameless. He ran the tip of his tongue along John's fingers, knowing that the other loved the tickling sensation it caused, before John gave his cock a light squeeze and Paul jolted, sucked harder on John's fingers reflexively. John smiled, withdrew his fingers slowly, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of Paul's lips when Paul whimpered softly in protest.  
  
"You know how to relax still, don't you?" he asked, hand moving down to Paul's arse.  
  
"I may be older now, John, but I'm not senile yet," Paul replied, calm and smiling, and spread his legs a little, getting into a more comfortable position.  
  
John leaned over for a moment, stretched a long arm for the puddle of his trousers on the carpet. He had a small, round tin of Vaseline in his trouser pocket, the sort you carried for chapped lips and windbitten fingers. There shouldn't have been anything erotic about it at all, but Paul still groaned and shifted when he saw John straighten up again, his pale body slimmer than Paul remembered it but all its marks and angles familiar, with the tin in his hand, his fingers still spit-wet.  
  
"Want to be sure," he told Paul, catching him looking. "I don't want to chance going at it just on hope and a bit of spit, after all this time. Bet you're tight, Paul." Abruptly, John's voice dropped. Two long fingers dipped into the tin, came out glistening, and Paul shivered as John parted his thighs, slipped his fingers between. John found him easily with the tips of them, trailed a lazy circle around Paul's rim.  
  
"Fuck," Paul hissed, legs jerking involuntarily. John smiled, pushed one finger carefully inside until the muscle yielded to it, let John in.  
  
"Always were so fucking tight for me, love," John said. He was moving his finger slowly now, rhythmically; another swiftly joined it with the ease of long practice, making Paul arch and gasp. "But you want it, don't you?" John twisted his wrist so his palm was upward, thumb and little finger curled into it, and he was fucking Paul in earnest now, these knowing, twisting motions that made Paul tremble, body opening for John's touch. "What do you want, baby?"  
  
"Fuck me," Paul said lowly. This was his line; he didn't remotely object to saying it, not with John's long-beloved hands playing him so effortlessly, sweat standing out on Paul's chest, licking along the spurs of his hips. "Christ, John -- fucking put it in me, all right?"  
  
John's mouth curled, dangerous and pleased. Pantherlike. The grace of his movements was pantherlike, too, as he leaned in, lifted Paul's legs and hitched him closer, thighs wide around John's hips and knees almost back to his chest. John took himself in hand, fisting his shaft a few times where it shone with the Vaseline, and Paul gritted his teeth as John rubbed the tip of himself around Paul's entrance, pressed himself against it bluntly, teasingly, not hard enough. "Ask nicely, Paul," he said, lowering his lashes coyly.  
  
Paul's muscles spasmed, as if his body wanted to claw John inside of it, finally, finally. "Just put your fucking dick in my fucking arse, Lennon, all right?" he managed, voice tight, and John laughed, licked his lips.  
  
"All right," he said, then, "God, Paul." And he pushed in.  
  
The familiarity with which Paul welcomed John, and the way John felt inside of him, overwhelmed both men. For a moment, neither of them moved. Only the sound of their ragged breathing could be heard.  
  
"You alright, Paul?" John eventually rasped out, pulling out slightly when the stillness became too much, beginning a careful rhythm.  
  
Paul nodded, "Y-yeah, just keep moving." He reached up and slung his arms around John's neck to pull him down, kissing his lips briefly before he added, "Want you near me."  
  
"Soppy git." John smiled and buried his face in the crook of Paul's neck as he started to move, carefully at first, holding Paul's hips still in his firm grip. "Calm down, babe, it's just me."  
  
Paul inhaled deeply as he willed his body to relax, one hand buried in John's hair, cupping his head, the other stroking up and down the smooth skin of his back. John placed gentle kisses on Paul's shoulder and nuzzled his jaw while he continued to thrust slowly into Paul, groaning softly when he noticed Paul finally beginning to rock up to meet his thrusts. "Yeah, that's it..."  
  
Soon, slow thrusts and gentle kisses were no longer enough. The kisses grew more passionate, the thrusts more frantic. Paul arched his back, letting out a throaty moan when John slammed directly into the bump of his prostate, making Paul's dick twitch against his belly.  
  
"More," Paul groaned, digging his fingernails into John's sides, "Come on, John,  _fuck me."_  
  
The need in his own voice stunned Paul. He barely sounded like himself any more, not the cautious adult he'd become, at least. But having John like this -- John inside him; John's firm solid weight pressing him into the mattress; John's clever hands touching him everywhere -- there wasn't any sense of  _careful_ any more. The way John's face twisted at Paul's words made the heat in Paul's stomach intensify, the urgency still greater.  
  
"Christ, love," John bit out, the words rough with exertion, "I fuckin' -- I --"  
  
Whatever he had intended to say, it got lost somewhere between the hectic hard thrust of his hips and the way Paul surged up to meet him, hands lacing into John's hair to bring their mouths together again. This kiss was all fury, deep and wet, their jaws working wide against each other and their teeth clicking as John's pace increased, now at a trot, now at a gallop. Going at it like this, it wasn't possible to lie with legs either side of John's hips and expect not to be jolted right up towards the headboard; Paul lifted his legs and locked them around John's waist, ankles crossed over the small of his back, heels driving him on as he arched his back and fucked up into John's thrusts.  
  
"Jesus," Paul panted hotly against John's mouth, "fuck, yeah, like that, like that. Fuckin' hell, Johnny,  _harder_."  
  
He could feel every inch of John, now; felt it when John's hips rolled on the upthrust and jerked, trembling, as John withdrew. John panted, sweat coursing down the dip of his spine so Paul's ankles slipped against the hollow of his back, and he was hammering into Paul, now, fucking him full, cramming everything he had into Paul again and again and it still wasn't enough. Now that he had John, nothing would do but everything. Paul moaned, twisted his hips, arched his back as if he could get John deeper than he already was. He felt lit up from the inside, every nerve ending on fire, and then John was groaning against his neck and even the vibration of it was enough to lift Paul higher, making him clutch at John's hair and cry out.  
  
"Harder," he panted, "harder." It was a mantra, now, the word tripping out of his mouth over and over again, almost meaningless except as a companion to John's thrusts, the way John's chest heaved as his fingers bit bruise-deep into Paul's hips, pulling him further up onto John as John fucked him, took him. Reclaimed him. Paul's dick was pulsing against his belly, untouched and leaking a pool of its own slick. When Paul reached down, the slickness stretched in a thin, glistening line like a string of honey between his stomach and the crown of his cock before John slapped at his wrist and the string snapped, leaving only a pearl of precome at the tip of Paul's dick.  
  
"Hey," John said, voice ragged, in response to Paul's whine of protest, "let me, alright?  _I_  want to be the one to make you come."  
  
Flicking his tongue across his bottom lip, Paul nodded raggedly in understanding, moaning at another deep thrust.  
  
Leaning forward to kiss Paul yet again, fucking him with his tongue dirty and wet, John reached between them and started pumping Paul's dick along to his thrusts, wanking him exactly the way Paul liked it. But John was  _too_  good at this; Paul could feel the end being wrung out of him with brutal efficiency, and somehow, now that he was so close, it wasn't what he wanted. With a sigh as he withdrew from the kiss, he reached between them and took John's hand from his cock. "Stop --, not like this." When the other man gave him a look of surprise, Paul added, "I want to come from you fucking me. Only from that." He squeezed John's sides between his trembling legs, digging his heels into John's back as if to push him closer.  
  
"Christ," John groaned and captured Paul's bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before he resumed kissing him hard, tightening his grip on Paul's hips.  
  
It barely took much more than that. Paul had been frighteningly, roaringly turned on long before John had even started to pound him into the mattress, and when he came, he released a deep, almost animalistic growl while his release coated his stomach and chest. That was expected, inevitable, the heat of it roaring through him and ringing in his ears. What he didn't expect, though, was for John to bend his head to Paul's chest and, without missing a beat, set to licking it off.  
  
"Bloody hell, John." The sight of John like that, pink tongue sweeping wetly through the smears of white on Paul's chest, made Paul's spent dick twitch futilely with a last spasm of arousal. John was still moving, hips working jaggedly now, jolting Paul into the mattress, and his breath was coming fast and hot against Paul's skin. His teeth grazed a nipple and Paul jerked, cradling John's head, gripping his sweat-damp shoulders.  
  
"Fuck, love," he panted, in a voice hoarse from yelling, "You're close, I know you are. I want it, John, come on." Paul arched his back, gathering the strength in his limp, post-climactic muscles enough to rock himself up into John's thrusts, urging him on. "Fill me up, pet. Give it to me. I want it."  
  
That did it. John's thrusts were so brutally fierce by now that the whole bed was juddering against the floorboards, every slam of John's hips sending a frisson of heat from Paul's overstimulated prostate through his lower body, but now John stiffened, whole body stilling, and then he was coming, crying out harshly as it pumped out of him in deep, wrecked pulses. Paul stroked his hair through it, held him until his body stopped trembling, and when John finally went limp and settled his head in the crook of Paul's neck and shoulder, Paul kissed the top of his head before they both went still, feeling each other's pulses race.  
  
Neither of them would have been able to say, afterwards, how long they stayed like this, John lying on top of Paul, arms wrapped around one another, legs entangled. They only lay and listened to their breathing as it gradually slowed. John hummed softly as he listened to Paul's heartbeat, and eventually, he shifted slightly, enough to plant a tiny kiss on Paul's chest, then lean up to nuzzle his throat.  
  
"Hi," he said as he looked up at Paul, a tired but contented smile playing over his lips. This was an old routine of theirs, something they'd often done, and Paul couldn't help but smile back.  
  
"Hi," Paul replied. He brushed the hair from John's forehead and pressed a kiss to it, before John rolled off him and pulled Paul into a hug, spooning him from behind, the way he might have in another lifetime. Still used to the movements, still a perfect team.  
  
John kissed Paul's neck and shoulders, caressed his stomach as he pushed a knee between Paul's thighs and squeezed him in his arms. And somehow, three words slipped from his mouth he hadn't meant to say. "I love you."  
  
Almost instantly, Paul tensed up in his arms, swallowing hard.  
  
John hesitated a moment; Paul could feel the sudden wariness in him. Then he said, carefully, "Paul...you can hardly be surprised to hear it."  
  
"You didn't say so," Paul said, quietly. "Earlier, I mean."  
  
"Well, you know me," John said, "I have to be broken down a bit before I'll air me vulnerabilities, you know." His voice tilted up at the ends as if going for levity, but Paul could hear the truth in it.  
  
"I know," he said, lacing his fingers through John's and squeezing them. "I love you too, in case there was ever any doubt."  
  
For a long beat, there was silence. John fitted perfectly against Paul's back, moulded to every line of his body. Paul could have fallen asleep like this without the slightest difficulty, were it not for the fact that he could  _feel_  that John still had something on his mind. Not that this was really a surprise.  
  
"I wish," John said, and then stopped, his voice halting. "Sometimes I just wish things had gone a different way. I -- I don't know how we got here, sometimes, Paul. And I don't know how to get back. I know this isn't where I want to be but I don't know if we can go back from it."  
  
Paul swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. He had felt similarly himself, on many occasions; this wasn't where he wanted to be with John, but -- "We can't go  _back_ ," he said, quietly, "but we can always go forward, John. You don't have to go to New York."  
  
"I do," John said, immediately, and Paul felt something splinter in his chest. For a moment he was silent.  
  
Then after, a second, John said, "I can't stand not being with you," the words falling out all in a rush. "Not seeing you, I mean. I know this -- it's not exactly tenable, but you could come to New York, don't you? You can -- you can find reasons to come to New York?"  
  
"...for this," Paul said, carefully. He twisted slightly in John's arms, enough to look at him over his shoulder. He tested the prospect in his mind: flying the Atlantic deliberately to meet up with John for illicit liaisons, creeping away to hotels together like guilty teenagers. They were both married. The thought should have galled him, but for some reason, though he half-hated himself for it, it didn't. Some other woman, yes, he couldn't have gone through with it, wouldn't have wanted to, but John...  
  
"For me," John said, and Paul leaned back to kiss him, brushing their mouths together softly.  
  
"All right," he said. "If it means I get to have you -- any of you -- then all right. At least for now."  
  
"For now?" John murmured as he grazed his lips along Paul's neck. "And then?"  
  
"I don't know," Paul shrugged. Nibbling on his bottom lip, he turned around in John's arms until he was facing him. Over the years, Paul had learned that whenever their mood seemed to slip, all he had to do was to hold John and take away his worries. "You know, what, love?"  
  
"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me now," John replied with a half-hearted grin.  
  
Paul deliberately ignored this comment, only smiled sweetly in response as he cupped John's cheek, running his thumb along it. "For the longest time, I've been imagining you and me and Martha up on my farm in Scotland. And we both would be buggering each other silly till we're too old for fucking, but that'd be alright because we'd still have each other."  
  
"That actually sounds lovely," John sighed and rested his forehead against Paul's. "Maybe we can have that. Someday."  
  
Paul only smiled weakly and kissed John's lips.  
  
Eventually, they fell asleep like that, holding on to each other until the next morning when they had to part again.  
  
  
*****  
  
"If I have to hear any more about this bloody 'Locomotion'," John muttered, snapping off the radio, "I'm going to do someone bodily harm. I won't be held responsible."  
  
"Oh, you'll live," Paul said dismissively, setting down his empty teacup on the counter and slipping a hand into the back pocket of John's jeans.  
  
"Cheeky," John said, but he seemed suitably distracted from his irritation at the radio. He wrapped his own arm around Paul's shoulders and kissed his temple. For a moment, they stood like that, looking out over the drizzly farmland.  
  
"Where's Arrow got to?" Paul ventured, after a minute.  
  
"Asleep," John told him, laughing softly. "Tired the poor thing out, I think. Too much walking." He pointed: Paul followed the line of his arm and spotted, as promised, a bundle of Old English Sheepdog curled up on a blanket by the door.  
  
"Aren't  _you_  tired out, then?" Paul teased. "You're getting on a bit yourself, you know."  
  
"Hey." John prodded Paul in the stomach. "I'm not tired out." He paused, bit his lip. He wasn't smiling, not exactly, but his eyes betrayed him. "I wouldn't mind going to bed, though."  
  
"You never do," Paul said. His voice strove towards fond irritation, but his hand in John's pocket squeezed encouragingly, belying his words. "Come 'ead, then. While we've got the house to ourselves."  
  
"Don't we live dangerously, darling," John said, and kissed him.


End file.
